How I got over my ridiculous obsession with ridding my entire body of hair
Even though I was probably the only one who noticed the hair on my body—looking back, it certainly wasn't as grotesque as I thought—I couldn't leave it alone. I was convinced that I would be prettier—and happier—if only I could get my skin to a silky, pristine state.
I'm 28 years old now and the last time I used a depilatory was about four years ago. I was newly single and had let my hair-removal routine slacken during the comfort of a long-term relationship that was now over. With my sights set on someone new, I brought out the depilatory. This time, as soon as I washed off the solution, my back and chest erupted in an awful cystic-acne-and-rash combination.
I remember shopping for an outfit for my 25th birthday party soon after the outbreak incident and feeling tormented by the slew of backless dresses I couldn't wear. And while I spent the next few months hooking up with the aforementioned new guy, I was careful to never let him see my back, which was most affected by the breakout and took the longest to heal. That meant using concealer to cover up what I could, keeping the lights off, and sleeping and walking in such a way that my bare back never faced him.
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